Just one thing

Returning from the coffee shop, I find the living room quiet and deserted.  I check the bedroom. The laundry basket is still there.

Since Demeter fell, three years ago, the Resident Fan Boy has taken charge of the laundry.  I sort it and leave it ready, and he takes it up as soon as it's permissible to use the laundry rooms, at 8 am.  One of our neighbours, a fellow who thinks he's a wit, teases us regularly about this, and I remind him which century this is.

I remember it's the one morning a week that the RFB leads a Matins service at the cathedral, so I turn on some music in preparation for my sort of morning service, going over to set up Demeter's breakfast at her apartment.

Then I remember that the Matins service is supposed to end at 9:15 - an hour ago. I continue to make my morning toast, and think about Michael Mosley, a BBC radio personality and documentary host.  About a month ago, he was on holiday on a Greek island, and leaving his wife on the beach, set off for a walk.  Somehow, in the heat of the day, he didn't quite make it back to the pub, falling just out of sight of passersby.  He wasn't found for four days.

I decide to text my own husband:  "Are you okay?"

No reply.

"Are you at church?'

No reply.

I check the calendar, and try phoning.  No reply - it goes to voice message.  I wait five minutes.  Same result.

I text:  "Where on earth are you?"

I think of Clare Bailey, Mosley's wife, and how her thoughts must have progressed from mild concern (and mild annoyance), to worry, to panic.  I think helplessly of how I have little idea how to track the RFB down.  Should I call the church office?  (What's the damn number?) Will I stumble out to the street and wonder wildly which route to search?

The phone rings.  (Michael Mosley didn't have his phone with him.) The RFB has, of course, turned off his phone for the service, and forgot to turn it back on, before wandering off to have breakfast downtown and do some banking.  I think of Michael Mosley and all those little things he suggested for people to have better health and longer lives -- only to collapse on holiday, with no one knowing where he was, or how to track him.

My heart eventually stops hammering, seconds before the RFB hoves into view.

The elephant in the room

 The best of results and the worst of fears, all in one day.

On a summer's morning, I was struggling to get Demeter's laundry done, and, tussle concluded, returned to our place to find the Resident Fan Boy and the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant setting up an enormous big screen television in our living room.

This was not a shock.  The Resident Fan Boy has been promising me for two years that we would join the ranks of those with flat screens - as my eye-sight steadily deteriorates.  I sent him examples and gently hinted, but he always said that he was too busy with his church volunteering and accompanying younger daughter to her singing lessons.  He decided that he needed the guidance of brother-in-law the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant, who works in IT for a provincial governmental department.  Every time my Double Leo Sister and her husband visited, the topic would be raised and deferred.

Finally, the appointment had been made, the device purchased, and now the technical argot was in full swing.

The Jolly Not-So-Green Giant is young enough to belong to a different cohort, and was, once again, earnestly trying to sell me on Netflix.  (Every time I investigate Netflix, I'm mostly impressed by how unimpressed I am.)

Having, after some fiddling, located our cable service (which provides us with HBO and Crave, thank you very much), it seemed they couldn't connect our DVD player. Now, this is something that clearly mystifies J N-S-G G, who streams everything, but I've been dreaming, for more than two years, of being able to watch my favourite things on a big screen. 

As the fellas sank into another discussion consisting of strings of letters and numbers, Double Leo Sister quizzed me about lunch.  I checked with younger daughter, who had retreated to her room, but she wasn't forthcoming, so DLS and I decided on the local Greek restaurant.  I was nervous about Demeter waiting for us, as the installation stretched on and on, so I set out for Demeter's apartment.  DLS followed with her dog, and I tried to clear my head of the jangle of the upheaval.

We should have taken younger daughter with us.

We were accompanying Demeter to the restaurant, in a slow descent down Cook Street, when my phone rang.  The Resident Fan Boy was calling to say he couldn't find younger daughter.  Or the cat.

I gave a quick update to DLS and doubled back to our place.  Apparently younger daughter had fled with her purse when she overheard her uncle telling her father that the DVD problem could be resolved, but, as he laughed dismissively, the VHS player was out of the question. (The J N-S-G G has always derived derisive pleasure out of our ancient televisions, DVD collections and residual video cassettes.) Not a problem for us, but younger daughter, being on the spectrum, abhors change, and there are a couple of VHS tapes she treasures, mainly for what she associates with them. Neither man noticed that she'd  slipped out, until they were getting ready to join us for lunch.  They soon realized that she hadn't taken her phone.  Younger daughter has fled before, but not since we returned to Victoria.  She does know the neighbourhood, having walked most of it.

But how could she have taken the cat? He weighs fourteen pounds, I wondered miserably, more resentful than ever that the RFB had involved his complex and complicating in-laws in what should have been a relatively simple purchase.

I arrived to find my husband uselessly pacing the apartment.  He had located the cat, who had taken his safety perch on the very top of younger daughter's armoire.  Shortly afterwards, the J N-S-G G phoned the RFB with the news that younger daughter had shown up at the restaurant.  Double Leo Sister came in the van to pick us up, but I chose the five-minute walk as a balm and therapy - and a play for time. I had a bit of stress and irritation to walk off, both of which I couldn't afford to show.

If only the RFB had bought the television on his own, I grizzled.  He told me later that he actually prayed they wouldn't be able to fit it in their van, so he could have it delivered and installed later.

At the restaurant, younger daughter apologized and told us she was considering a walk in the park, but thought that would make her late for lunch.  I handed her the phone, gently explaining that she should always have it handy, and congratulated her on remembering to go to the Greek restaurant.

We brought Demeter back, and I was able to show her a Repair Shop she'd seen, but this time in all the glory and splendour of a 65-inch high definition screen.  DLS took the RFB to London Drugs to pick up an inexpensive compatible DVD player, and I showed Demeter a sampling of Wolf Hall, which we'd been showing her in parts on her Thursday night dinner visits. What had been dark, and difficult to follow for her, was now huge, clear, and comprehensible - just as I'd prayed it would be.

Finally, to my secret relief, they departed.

I feel grateful - and exasperated at the same time.  Over the past month, we've been learning how the new toy works and revelling in the clarity and detail - particularly such things as ballets and musicals.  Even old Fred Astaire movies have a three-dimensional look to them.  It's like being by a window and looking in on far-removed times and places.

However, there is a price, beyond the monetary one.  I can never express anything other than delight, acknowledgement, and appreciation for the service rendered, as traumatising as it was.

But you know, there was always that particular elephant in the room.  Now it can watch TV.

Revealed themselves one star at a time

 Planning is key - especially with someone on the autistic spectrum.

I'd carefully sold the outdoor screening of A Hard Day's Night at Beacon Hill Park to younger daughter a couple of days in advance.

On the day in question, we had a couple of hours to sunset, so I put on some music after dinner and made popcorn - having been mindful enough to locate the popping corn earlier in the day, which required cleaning out a couple of cupboards.  (The B-Festival wasn't selling popcorn this year.) I summoned younger daughter, so she could enjoy the kernels blossoming into white.

Then I withdrew to cover myself in highly toxic "Muskol", having also dug that out in advance. I diplomatically got younger daughter to don shoes and socks, rather than her favoured footwear of the summer, her fancy flip-flops.

Leaving our building, I took the lead, race-walking the most direct route to the Cameron Bandshell, reflecting on how it had been almost exactly three years since the evening we last attended a film at the Free-B Movie Festival.  In 2019, we took younger daughter to the condo, to break the news that we were moving from the apartment we'd occupied since our return to Victoria in 2017.  That way, she could see her new bedroom, and to soften the blow, proceed to the park to watch a Harry Potter movie.  (It went well.)

Three years later, we secured a bench corner, not too near the front, and munched the home-made popcorn, and, in the deepening dusk, watched the Beatles in a film we must have seen over fifty times, but there are still new things to discover.  This time, I saw George Harrison fall against a speaker as he played, and wondered how I'd missed that, all these years.

A star (or, more likely, a planet) rose slowly behind the screen, and I made a wish.  It's always the same one, and I can't tell you what it is, for fear it won't come true.

Afterwards, the Resident Fan Boy, who'd been grumbling all weekend, said he was happy he'd come.  A large orange moon, just past being full, had made its way to a spot above the buildings on the eastern horizon,  beyond the dark park. On Southgate, I caught a glimpse of a brilliant meteor whizzing silently eastward, and younger daughter told me, as we walked home, that she'd spotted a shooting star during the movie.  This was at the time of the Perseids.  

I felt tired, but content.  It would have been nice to have ended there.

Planning doesn't prevent the unexpected.  Once home, the Resident Fan Boy couldn't find his phone.  Sighing patiently, I phoned his number from mine.  We heard nothing.

The RFB sought and panicked, while I went into the bathroom to turn off the taps on the tub he'd been running.  The RFB dove back into the night, to retrace his steps in the dark.

About five minutes later, younger daughter found the missing phone under the bathmat.  I texted, hoping the message would flash up on his FitBit:  "You can come home."  "It was under the bathmat."

I texted over and over.  Thirty-seven times.

When the RFB returned half an hour later, he realized he'd silenced the ringer for the movie, which is why we couldn't hear it when searching the apartment.

I got to bed about 1 am, after rinsing the toxic insect repellent from my body.  Two days later, about a dozen bites blossomed on my knees.  They seemed to come out of nowhere, like stars in a summer sky. 

Taking things "litterally"

I really want to make this clear. I've been fortunate, in the aftermath of Demeter's fall last January, that the Resident Fan Boy has taken up a number of my chores.  

In the early days, that was nearly all of them, because I stayed with Demeter during the first week, and went in four times a day after that, to assist with rising and breakfast, lunch, supper, and the bedtime routine.  

One evening in early February, I came home through the dark streets, thinking dark thoughts.  In our apartment, the main bathroom door was closed, and younger daughter's bedroom door wide open, the signal that she was taking her evening bath.

But where was the Resident Fan Boy? The living room was silent and deserted.  I turned right and entered our bedroom to take off my coat, still not seeing my husband.  I started to get a little alarmed.

Around the corner, there he was, on all fours, in the small dark passageway that serves as a walk-in closet, and leads to the ensuite toilet.

My heart nearly stopped.  It was less than two weeks after Demeter's accident, and I thought:  He's hurt; he's collapsing in pain or illness; he's ----- cleaning the kitty litter box....

On all fours.  Having scooped poop onto sheets of toilet paper he'd laid out on the floor.

"What on earth???" I shrilled.

I realized, in a slightly horrified flash, that, in all our years of owning pets - two of which have been cats -- the RFB had never actually sifted kitty litter. (How is that possible?)

Brushing this epiphany aside, I did a quick demo of how I balance the cat-box on the sink, and transfer the flushables with a trowel into the toilet, before sweeping out the cubby, where, judging from the amount of spilled litter, our cat evidently rehearses the burial of our lifeless corpses.

"I wondered how you managed every night," remarked the RFB.

Y'know, he could have asked.

We'll have to muddle through somehow

Have you noticed how when people sing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" this year, they revert to the original lyrics?

Someday soon, we all will be together, if the fates allow.  Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow...

Our Christmas Day may have been similar to other Christmas Days, but it's the line of days between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve that emphasize how this holiday season is like no other in peacetime.

I get poignant reminders, through my journals and via the FaceBook "On this date" feature, that our usual second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth days of Christmas were usually given to visiting and being visited, of seeing the movies most likely to be nominated for Academy Awards in the coming year, of making our annual trek to Butchart Gardens for the Christmas afternoon tea, even the occasional concert or play.

Yesterday, I had a series of tiny triumphs.  The current situation has slowed parcel delivery, so a handful of love offerings have not yet arrived, making the line of daily small gifts for the Twelve Days of Christmas rather sparse.  I grabbed a rare moment on my own to quickly hit a couple of downtown shops, and located a Doctor Who calendar for the Resident Fan Boy for the Eighth Day of Christmas, and a much-coveted video for younger daughter's Fifth Day of Christmas.  My finds were made all the sweeter, being from local businesses.

After lunch, we perused one of the sites for the annual Habitat for Humanity Gingerbread House contest.  Normally housed in a hotel lobby, they have been spread out to a number of different venues, where you view them through glass from the sidewalk.  A bit bleak, but better than nothing.

One of this year's candidates - yes, it's gingerbread

This morning, I awoke to "gremlins", resulting from a disturbing and accusatory dream of younger daughter's being back in school (thank god she isn't).  And as I lay there, fighting off the feelings of panic and failure, I also struggled with the recurring question that assails me every damn time:  Are these gremlins a delusion of the dark -- or an epiphany of waking clarity?  I fervently pray it's the latter.

Of course, then I checked my phone - big mistake - and encountered the doom-scroll of the situation in Britain, their hospitals with lines of ambulances outside, waiting for unavailable beds, and the country finally toppling into Brexit.  Of course, now elder daughter lives there.

Next year, all our troubles will be out of sight.  Because it will too dark to see them?

Broken concentration

Over the past five weeks, time has turned into something like Christmastide, or the summer holidays -- it's moving at a slower pace, yet is way too eventful, despite our state of modified house arrest, where we wash our hands until our knuckles feel like sandpaper, and wipe down switches and devices with rubbing alcohol.

One recent evening, I was getting ready for bed, a ritual consisting of several careful steps, as I divest myself of the day, and set up things I must remember for successfully launching myself into the coming day. This particular evening, this meant setting my FitBit to charge on the computer out in the living room, in preparation for putting it back on my wrist, where it professes to keep track of how well I've slept. I have my doubts about its accuracy, but this isn't the point. The point is, my FitBit vibrates when I have an incoming call or text message; it even tells me who is trying to contact me, if they're among my phone contacts.

My phone, as it happens, was also charging, lying on my bed after one of its "wink-outs". This is something that it started doing a few months ago, I can only conjecture that this is because I've had it for nearly four years, which makes it, in terms of devices, a dinosaur. After winking out, the phone takes about 30 seconds to load back up again, so I set about removing my eye makeup, shoes, and top.

I had just finished brushing my teeth when the landline rang. An 800 number. At 10:30 pm. The nerve.

It was Lifeline, Demeter's emergency service, which detects any movement by Demeter that could be interpreted as a fall. At the same moment, my revived cell phone rang. It was Double Leo Sister, calling from her home 500 miles away. She doesn't call unless it's an emergency; Lifeline must have reached her first when I failed to answer my momentarily disabled cell phone, being unaware of any calls because my Fitbit was charging in another room. I hastily explained that Lifeline was on the landline, and that I'd get back to her, once I'd checked on Demeter. Lifeline was telling me that my mother had fallen, and I told them I could be there in two minutes.

I shoved my bare feet back into my shoes and retrieved my top from the laundry basket. Grabbing both my keys and Demeter's keys, I barrelled into the living to get my coat, as I gave the Resident Fan Boy a quick rundown. He followed behind at some distance as I fled up the dark and deserted street, a dog in some empty house barking at my shadow.

The Resident Fan Boy caught up with me as I pounded the entry code into the front door keyboard at Demeter's condominium building. I told him the stairs would be quicker, and I rushed left, as he turned right to take the elevator anyway. He arrived at Demeter's apartment several minutes after I did.

Demeter was bruised and shaky in her slip. Being a retired physio, she'd managed to regain her feet, and answer Lifeline to forestall an ambulance.

Apparently, her legs had mysteriously given away, and she had folded to the ground. Most of the impact had been taken by her right knee, shoulder, and temple. Her clothes were strewn where she'd fallen, and we improvised an ice pack of frozen perogies, which we applied to her forehead with a damp dishtowel, as she protested gently.

We stayed until she was safely tucked into bed, folding her clothes, and turning off the lights, before retreating back up the block, as I slowed my breathing.

I discovered that in my haste, I'd left my phone on the bed. It promptly winked out once more, as a long parade of texts from my sister came through.

It took a while for sleep to come.

The next morning, Demeter's brow was unbruised, and she was only slightly sore. It didn't occur to me until later, that I had spent the previous afternoon taking the laundry to the laundry with younger daughter, demonstrating how to carefully wipe door handles and elevator buttons on the way, then washing our hands carefully afterwards.

All such precautions flew out of the window when I flew out of the house.

Demeter seems fine.

Going agley (or whatever the Welsh variation might be)

I had such plans for today.

It's St David's Day, of course, and the Resident Fan Boy picked up a generous bunch of daffodils yesterday. (Some years, they're scarce, but there's an abundance today.)

I headed into the cluster of shops near us and picked out two daffodil-bunches for Demeter: one opened and one nearly opened. "No bag," I told the cashier. "I'll just carry them to my mother like a kid heading home from school."

Demeter has whatever was laying me low a week ago, a nasty cluster of colly-wobbles and chills, seasoned with an afterglow of enervation.

When I got to her apartment, she'd become scary-sick, needing help to negotiate the trip to her ensuite bathroom, and refusing food, drink, and medication. That last item was particularly worrying, as she has the usual stack of medications required from a person her age. I stood over her and (gently, I swear!) persuaded her to take her morning pills, then controlled my panic as she nearly choked on them.

Spent the afternoon in her living room, staying within earshot, and ditching my plans to attend a St-David's-Day-themed cemetery tour. (Hey, you have your thrills; I have mine.)

Curfew shall not ring tonight?

Sometimes one wonders if the planets have lined up some odd way.

The morning had begun peacefully enough. I was up early and well on my way into Cook Street Village by 9 am. By 9:30, I'd answered an email, and sipping on an iced mocha, half-listened to the piped-in music as I arranged my journals ready for tackling.

That's when the phone rang.

Elder daughter had been ambushed by a major crisis at work, and had phoned me to vent, given that she has an open invitation to do so. I pushed aside my journals. While I was listening intently, I heard a beep that indicated another phonecall, something that almost never happens to me, as most of my communication is through texts and emails. My FitBit is linked to my phone, and it told me that the call was from Double Leo Sister in Prince George, whose calls are as rare as hens' teeth. Elder daughter understood the implication immediately, and rang off.

DLS was succinct - also unusual for her. The Lifeline people had called her, she said. They believed Demeter had fallen, and, as no designated neighbours had answered their calls, they were summoning an ambulance. I threw everything into my packsack, and fled north towards Demeter's condo, a five-minute walk, shorter if one is in a controlled panic.

It was 9:50. As I race-walked uphill, my phone rang again. Resident Fan Boy had been contacted by Lifeline. As I struggled to get my packsack centred on my back, and give a coherent answer to the RFB, a faint question was in the back of my brain: Why hadn't they called me?

However, all my thinking space was consumed with nightmarish scenarios and keeping myself calm.

Jigging from one foot to the other. Change, light. Change! No sign of an ambulance. I fumbled with the fob, eschewed the elevator to dash up the stairs, concentrated on getting the key in the door, and nearly fell in. My heart sank. Much of the apartment was dark.

But the kitchen light was on. And there was Demeter, fixing breakfast, and unaware of my precipitous entrance because she had not yet put in her hearing aids.

She started telling me what happened. On the fourth of each month, she presses the Lifeline button to check in with the call centre. Usually someone responds, Demeter reports in for the month, and that's it. It's the monthly test to ensure the line is open. This time, however, the phone rang and rang.

I was gesturing at my ears: "Put your hearing aids in!"

My phone rang. It was Double Leo Sister. As soon as Demeter could hear, I handed her my phone, and heard the rest of the story. Apparently, Demeter decided to call the local Lifeline office. A man answered and immediately asked if she needed an ambulance. She said she did not. They told her that her phone was off the hook, she insisted that it was not.

DLS rang off and I suggested that Demeter contact Lifeline to see about getting her machine reset; it was still blinking in alarm mode. I grabbed the opportunity to speak with the Lifeline gentleman and ask why I had not been called.

"Your number has been disconnected."
"Excuse me?"

He read off the number. It was our Ottawa number. I was flabbergasted. When Demeter went into hospital briefly last June - that's a year ago, folks - Lifeline called the Resident Fan Boy when I took her Lifeline pendant home from the hospital, because the knocking of my bag set it off, and made it appear that she'd had a fall. He gave them my cell number, and I told them what had happened, that I now lived in Victoria, that this number was now the correct one, and asked to be moved to the top of the contact list, as I was now the closest available family member. I guess that must have been the main office in Ontario; clearly the information had not been noted in the local records.

I consoled Demeter by telling her that this had been an excellent drill. Almost immediately, the phone rang yet again. It was one of the designated neighbours, who must have been out and come home to see the message.

Oh, well. You can't say there's no back-up. As calm as I thought I'd managed to be, when I went to leave, I noticed I'd failed to shut the apartment door.

Curfew shall not ring tonight ---- I think....

Ambushed by 2019

Woke up this morning with a start. The Resident Fan Boy had gone to work - back after more than two weeks off, and I realized that it was January 3rd, and the things that seemed so far off during Christmas - aren't.

I bolted out of bed and turned on the radio.

This song, which has been getting a fair bit of airplay on CBC Radio for the past month or so, is about other things that are far off. Hawksley Workman is singing about the towns of Battleford and North Battleford in Saskatchewan, but he grew up in Huntsville, another small town in Ontario, during the 1980s.

Most Canadians growing up in any Canadian town or even city in the latter half of the 20th century, though, will recognize elements of this song.



I feel less panicky this evening. I got a few things done.

Quiet desperation

The day after we learned that younger daughter's school had winked out of existence, things got just a shade more surreal.

I was in a crosswalk, en route to meeting Demeter at the public library, when a series of frantic texts from the Resident Fan Boy started arriving.  I got to a safe place on the curb to decipher them:

Just got back from town.  Younger daughter has disappeared with the Accent Snob.  Didn't take her phone and left the door unlocked. Crap.

Panic at a three-thousand-mile distance is even more futile than hysteria at close quarters, so I aimed for a light and jocular tone:

Learning curve!  Do you want to look for her?  And take some poop bags?

Looks like I have no choice.  She often does this to let him out to pee.  Oh damn

Obviously that's what she intended this time.  So what happened?

She could be anywhere and now she'll come back to a locked door.  Oh God.

I decided a phone call was in order. The Resident Fan Boy, a Virgo who had just flown in from Victoria the night before (a twelve-hour journey due to glitches and delays), had decided that it was imperative that he get to a downtown bank to pay a bill.  He had informed younger daughter before going out.  He would have been gone about an hour.  When he returned, not only did he find both his daughter and his dog gone, he found her purse containing her house keys and phone, and also discovered the Accent Snob's harness hanging up, which meant that she had attached the lead to the collar. We do that only when letting him out for a quick spot of relief. The RFB was now pounding the pavement, but unsure of the direction to take.

Maintaining my outward calm, I reminded him that younger daughter is familiar with the house alarm, and advised him to return to the house and set it, if he couldn't lock the door.  I also told him to phone elder daughter, who had accompanied younger daughter on dog walks the previous summer and could advise him on possible routes.

Hanging up, I proceeded to the library for my rendezvous with Demeter, not daring to tell her what was going on three time zones away until I knew more.  When she set off in search of a book, I darted into the children's section, where I could watch for her return while phoning the RFB for an update.

"Nope, no sign of her."

"Could she have gone to the park?"

"For heaven's sake, she'd never go that far!"

"How long has she been gone?"

"I dunno!  Half an hour?  The thing is, she's obviously taken him out front for a pee ---- and something happened...."

Painful pause.  From my hiding place, I could see Demeter returning from the book check-out.

"I guess you'd better call 911, then.  Keep me posted."

I set off with my mother in search of a place to drink. Demeter was suddenly thirsty and undoubtedly puzzled and hurt by my short replies and lack of suggestions. I was imagining booking an early flight home, and fought to keep my mind free of other imaginings.

At a small cafe, I texted while Demeter picked up her lemonade. The Resident Fan Boy was describing younger daughter to the 911 operator, who was almost as relieved as the RFB when younger daughter walked with the Accent Snob.  

She had taken him to the park.

Blinded by the wait (write of passage number forty)

I have found out the hard way that expressing fear, frustration, or anger to younger daughter is not helpful. Such feelings ricochet off her autism and create more damage, so, if I can, I sit on my emotions until she's not here.

And she wasn't here.

That's why I was crying uncontrollably.

It was the middle of a nutty week. Elder daughter, after nearly two years of making it on to shortlists, had finally been offered something close to a dream job. However, that afternoon, she was flipping out over contract negotiations, over-thinking, and reappearing from around the corner with yet another worry. Younger daughter had informed me that morning that she'd be needing chocolate-chip-cookie therapy after a stressful evening trying to adjust to her new radio alarm clock - a series of unfortunate events that had spiralled into an impassioned late-night text about being sick of school. (A mixed blessing about texts -- we now have a much better idea of what younger daughter is thinking - she evidently finds them easier than struggling for words on the spot.)

Meanwhile, I was finishing my last-minute assignments for an online genealogy course while baking the aforementioned cookies.

Just before logging on to the course-end chat (7:15 pm Greenwich Mean Time; 3:15 pm Eastern Daylight Time), I texted younger daughter to inform her that elder daughter wanted to have dinner out at a local pub to celebrate the new job, knowing that younger daughter should, by that time, be on the first of the two long bus rides that bring her home from her school in Nepean.

I submitted my assigned question to the chat, and after half an hour, the topic had shifted to something of interest to only three of the participants. I made myself a quick snack, checked my phone and noticed that younger daughter had not responded - unusual for her. I texted again; by this time she should be waiting downtown to transfer.

Watching the online chat sporadically, I began to worry, but just a little. Four o'clock came and went. I phoned and the call went to voice mail. Five minutes later, I tried again and younger daughter's head teacher picked up, apologizing for answering a phone that wasn't hers. Younger daughter had left her phone at school. I thanked her, telling her that we were far happier knowing the phone was safe. I didn't tell her younger daughter was late, because she wasn't late enough.

She was late enough as the online chat wound down without me; I hastily signed off.

Younger daughter always waits for the #1 bus because it drops her off at our front door.  She didn't get off the next bus that rattled past our house.  I went outside to note the number of the bus stop, texting it to check the GPS of the next bus while elder daughter assured me that her sister often arrived at 4:30 -- not true, and when she has, it's been on days she's had a lift.

At 4:33, the next bus passed without stopping.  I checked and re-checked the GPS for arrivals at our stop.  I don't think I'll ever forget those four digits.  The next bus was due at 4:55 pm.  She's never been that late.

Up to this point, I'd been calm and prosaic.

And then I wasn't.

I was blind-sided by a storm of tears, hearing myself wailing, "Where-is-she-where-is-she-why-did-she-forget-her-phone-there's-nothing-I-can-do-why-isn't-home-she-can't-reach-us-I-want-her-to-come-home...."

Over and over.  Elder daughter put her arm around my shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I wept heartbrokenly.  This was supposed to be a wonderful day, a time to celebrate elder daughter's emergence from months of applications, interviews and dashed hopes.

"Where is she?  Where is she?  What if she got on the 118?  She could be anywhere and I can't help her!  She can't tell us...."

Elder daughter asked for the number of OC Transpo.  I was too beside myself to help her look up the number.  Instead, I staggered to the door, thinking I could scan the street once more.  I halted.

"She's here!  She's here!"

She was wandering up our street, having evidently caught the #7.  I saw her gazing up the hill at something.

I couldn't let her see how upset I'd been; previous experiences have taught me this.  I asked elder daughter to check the damage to my make-up, knowing it would take younger daughter several minutes to retrieve her keys from her back-pack.  She doesn't like us to open the door for her.

"I'm glad to see you," I told her, my voice shaking only a little.  If she noticed, she gave no sign.  It turned out her first bus had been half an hour late.

"May I have a hug?" I asked, because she's on the spectrum and I can't just embrace her.

She let me hold her for a few seconds.

Her hair smelled of the coming spring.

Spot the lilac

It hits me in the nose with a light purple biff.  I know it will take a matter of seconds to locate the source, and there is, lilac bush at ten o'clock.  A few paces, it happens again:  quick scan and -- lilac bush, two o'clock.

Sometime during May, Hades and Victoria fall into step.  The temperatures are the same, and the lilac bushes in both cities bloom.  Then Hades will stride ahead, headlong into humidity.  Something similar will happen briefly in October, only Hades' fall colours will be shorter-lasting and more brilliant.

I venture out into this ready-to-vanish window of evening temperateness whenever I can, although this month, I have to, if my pedometer is short the day's 10,000 steps.  Also, the Accent Snob needs his walk.

Try telling him that.

We thought the warmth of spring would revive a doggy enthusiasm for strolls that has been noticeably lacking in the five months since he joined our household.  He's certainly sniffing the greatly-expanded menu of intriguing smells with some gusto.  (Not sure if the scent of lilac is among these.)  Unfortunately, the re-emergence of olfactory delights also brings out other summery things, and we've discovered the hard way that somewhere back in the ten years before we met him, the Accent Snob developed a phobia for skateboards.

Take a recent evening, as I trotted westward (ho!) down McKay Street.  I noticed the Accent Snob doing anxious shoulder checks, and immediately scanned the immediate vicinity.  All I saw was a lady in a bright pink Spandex concoction jay-jogging toward us.  It took me several minutes to make out a small boy behind us, still a block or so away, pushing slowly along on a skateboard alongside his strolling father.  The Accent Snob's sensitive ears had picked up the dreaded sound.

All of a sudden, the AS bolted and the handle of the retractable lead flew from my hand.  To my horror, he dashed into the street which, fortunately, was early-evening quiet.  Calling futilely, I followed as he dashed up the opposite sidewalk.  After a few panic-stricken seconds, he realized he was pelting towards the problem, wheeled around frantically and dashed right into me.  I was able to grab his lead.  He continued to pull away -- he's damn strong when he's scared -- and I desperately looked for a side-street that wasn't there.  I finally hauled him back to the other sidewalk and held him until the young boy coasted by obliviously.

Clearly, I need to transfer my lilac-spotting skills to skateboards.  I wonder if I could learn to smell them.  However, given that their occupants are usually pre-adolescent, post-adolescent, and downright adolescent boys, I doubt I'd want to...

Pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?

Things were going so well this morning. I got up early-ish and, while listening to holiday music offerings from Otis Redding and Bruce Springsteen on CBC Radio, glazed one of the tourtières I had prepared yesterday, popping it into the oven for the Resident Fan Boy's office holiday luncheon which used to begin at noon and now begins at 10 am. Then, sipping egg nog, I prepared breakfast for younger daughter who has been home with a frog in her throat all week so "White Christmas" is moot. I then read another chapter of Watership Down with younger daughter. As a matter of fact, I was going to call this post "Watership Countdown". Witty? No?

Then elder daughter returned home just before noon, after I finished wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts, so I thought I'd grab the opportunity to take the Accent Snob for a walk.

It was a brisk morning, a light icing sugar covering of snow from last night, and ice crystals drifting in the air. Our pooch, as we've discovered during the past few weeks since his adoption, is not an avid walker. Generally, he lifts his leg in the shrubs in front of our house, then tries to go back inside. I pulled him up firmly and set off to the corner, then across our street.

Once the Accent Snob realized I was determined to make this a proper walk, he headed straight for some bushes to make a deposit. Then attempted to turn tail and go home. I gave a quick yank and struggled to get under the shrubbery row with my flushable poop-bag. It took a few more commands and yanks to twist the bag and clip it with a clothes-peg, then as the dog plunged around the corner, I struggled to get my gloves back on, the bag in my left hand and the retractable leash in my right. Immediately, I began to feel an uncomfortable cold trickling down the back of my neck. While I'd been retrieving the dog deposit, the bushes had deposited a cup or so of snow in my hood.

At each cross-street, the Accent Snob made a dive to the left, knowing by now that this is the way home. Tempted as I was, given the chill settling between my shoulder blades, I sternly pressed on, intent on a riverside walk in the brilliant, heat-less sunshine.

We reached one of the entrances to the stretch of pathways beside the Rideau River, and the Accent Snob became entwined around one of the posts that serve to discourage through-traffic. As I tugged his leach to disentangle him, he suddenly broke into the expanse of shallow snow, collar-less and leash-free.

The awfulness of my predicament took a fraction of a second to sink in. The pathway that stretches east to west by the river was deserted, this final weekday before Christmas Eve. The Accent Snob was looking with great interest across the nearby road as he made wide galloping circles around me. Suppose he made a break for the streets? I knew from past experience that he is clueless about cars. Furthermore, his identifying tags were dangling from the collar in my hand.

I spent several increasingly desperate minutes calling him, trying to sound enticing rather than frantic and failing miserably. The Humane Society had warned us that he didn't respond to his name and that he was not a candidate for off-leash. I had fleeting and ironic thoughts about a runaway dog I had witnessed exactly one year ago. The lady in that nightmarish scenario didn't know the dog's name. I knew this dog 's name and it didn't matter. I tried sitting down on the snowy benches. He did approach me then, before scampering nimbly sideways when I reached for him. This is cute as all get-go in our living room, but in the deserted, frozen park, it was infuriating. I knew there was no malice in this dog, but vacillated between wanting to kill him and fearing for his life, particularly when he made repeated forays down the bank to the river's edge where I could hear the ice creaking under his paws. More than one dog has been swept away by the freezing currents of the local rivers.

What to do? I could try going home, and he'd probably follow me, blundering into the paths of oncoming cars. I could stay here, but how long? And what would my daughters think when I failed to return?

To the west, a figure in a parka appeared with a long-legged gangly white boxer who was tumbling about in floppy dog-boots, a common sight in this neighbourhood. The Accent Snob shot toward him. When he's leashed, the AS is rather stand-offish with other canines, but he seemed to recognize a fellow free spirit: "Look at us, we're off-leash!"

I followed rather less speedily and smiled sheepishly at the young woman. "I'm afraid I'm in big trouble," I said and explained what had happened.

"Oh," she said in concern and called her dog (who came promptly, of course). Accent Snob followed and I was finally able to nab him. My fingers were now too cold to feel the catch, so I held AS while my saviour clipped on the collar, then held his lead so I could struggle to my feet.

"I'm so glad you came by," I told the girl fervently, and feeling stiff, wet, and cold, took the Accent Snob home by the nearest short-cut.

When I posted my sad story on Facebook this afternoon, I was told kindly by one of my Facebook pals that she has a harness for her pooch who also slips out of his collar. I guess we'll be making a trip to the pet supply store.

I'd ask for a strait-jacket for myself, but I don't think they carry those.

Tabling

Woke up in a sweat this morning, worrying about homework and schoolwork issues at younger daughter's school and remembering I need to cook today because we're having Thanksgiving dinner on the Sunday because elder daughter flies back to Halifax tomorrow, and Demeter is going to have all sorts of ways of trying to help....

So this video is a tad misleading, but it is also an aspect of the Canadian Thanksgiving experience:

Pie plight

Friends were dropping by for a potluck this evening, and I was to provide for the pie. Yesterday, I knocked several delicate and diminutive orange plums from an ancient tree near the farthest edge of this house-sit's enormous backyard. This morning, I rose, made a to-do list, which included making pie crusts and pitting the two dozen plums, arranging them in the pie crust and carefully weaving a pastry lattice across the top. I carefully set the timer for twenty-five minutes and went to put my feet up. When I heard the bell, I went to the kitchen and was surprised by the strong smell. The beautiful lattice was black and the plums were sizzling noisily. I had set the unfamiliar oven to "broil".

I glanced at the clock. 3:45. My guests were due at five. I grabbed the pole which normally opens and closes the skylights and pelted across the backyard. I swiped at the high branches of the plum tree while amber balls of ripe fruit plummeted to the ground around me with muffled thumps. I tore back to the kitchen, mixed a new pastry together and pitted plums precipitously, tossing in the other ingredients in rather the wrong order and weaving the lattice with rather less care.

The second pie, still a bit over-baked but definitely presentable, was ready shortly after five. The phone rang. My guests would not be arriving until seven.

Y'know, this summer is beginning to wear a bit...

My mind is what I miss the most

I think it was spotting the Burger King on Clyde Avenue near Baseline Road. Although it really began with another one of those interminable dreams I get about needing to get somewhere and having something to finish first. Perhaps you get them too? The kind of dream from which you awake in a cold panic, realize that you don't have to do that or be there, only to realize there's someplace else you need to be, and that you do, in fact, have to get up.

This meant I was sitting on the #118 sometime after 8 am, en route to younger daughter's school, carefully counting off landmarks and fighting off the feeling of having been dragged through the broom ass-backwards. Clyde Avenue is my cue to count down bus stops, because we get off at the fourth one. That's when I spotted the Burger King, which started me on a free association of my year spent in Toronto, for some reason. (Probably because that was back in the days when I actually liked fast food and could eat it without gaining four pounds within twenty-four hours.) What with my sleep-deprived brain, the misted-out bus windows, and the dreary rain-washed wasteland of strip malls, I drifted off into a reverie, and suddenly came to, not knowing how much time had passed, and not recognising where we were.

Panicking, I rang the bell, and we clambered off, while I tried to get my bearings: Ferguson Street. Where the *#$%& is Ferguson Street? I glanced wildly around for land-marks, but recognized nothing, Baseline being as about as pretty a thorough-fare as its name suggests. All I could see were rows of unprepossessing houses, with endless traffic relentlessly buzzing along a road with infrequent traffic lights.

There was nothing for it but to head back the way we came, wondering how many bus stops I'd missed. After we'd been walking for about five minutes, I did finally recognise a landmark: the rather surly teen-aged girl at the next bus stop, whom we usually pass when we head up Erindale. Sure enough, the street beyond her was our turning, and I strode ahead of patient (probably oblivious) younger daughter, glancing at my watch and feeling for the first time how very long the trek up Erindale is. Fortunately, we weren't even late, and I managed to catch my bus back, but standing there in the rain, it occurred to me that I am going to make every mistake in the book while mastering this four-and-a-half-hour commute. Oh well. As long as I don't make each mistake twice, I should only have a transit crisis every week or so...
(The painting is "Bus Window" by folk-artist Cheri' Ben-Iesau.)

Burying Birthdays

The Resident Fan Boy's birthday is tomorrow. This is most inconvenient. It always is. Having a birthday in early September is almost as bad as having a birthday near Christmas. In most parts of Canada, school begins the Tuesday after Labour Day, so nearly every year the RFB's celebrations get eclipsed, and in some cases, damn near forgotten in the insanity of the beginning of the school year.

Take the year that elder daughter seemed to disappear one evening. She had arranged to meet the RFB at the Rideau Centre to purchase those delightful last-minute school supplies that teachers decide are necessary after the June purchase lists have been circulated. ("Oh yes, and this year you'll also be needing...") The Resident Fan Boy thought they were meeting at the stationer's; elder daughter had set up camp in a book store. In the panic that ensued when the RFB came home asking where elder daughter was and I didn't know, all else got blotted out. It wasn't until the next morning, when the RFB paused at the door before heading out to work, looking expectant, bewildered and slightly hurt, that I remembered. That had been a landmark birthday too, one of the ones ending in a zero. Elder daughter, of course, uses this incident in her continuing campaign to get a cell phone. We say, fine, if she can figure out where she's going to get the money to pay the fees...

This year shouldn't have been a problem because the Ottawa-Carlton school board, in its wisdom, decided to open the schools September 1st, the Tuesday before Labour Day. However, younger daughter is starting at an independent school this year which is opening tomorrow. We decided to side-step the issue and celebrate the Resident Fan Boy's birthday today, but all this means is that in addition to doing extra cooking, I'm labeling gym clothes, looking up bus schedules, and wondering what to pack for younger daughter's lunch. Oh well. We gave him a deluxe lawn chair, complete with canopy and cup-holder, and he's been happily reading the paper on the deck this beautiful temperate morning. We're taking him out to dinner, and once I've posted this to NaBloPoMo, I'm banishing myself to the kitchen to prepare a steak-and-kidney pie from scratch, something I've been attempting to do since Friday.

The Resident Fan Boy got his best present of all yesterday morning when younger daughter managed to thrust her PDD-NOS taciturnity aside and announce during church service that it was her daddy's birthday on Tuesday. This was a first for her and entirely without prompting. Whoever was carrying the microphone mischievously asked her how old RFB was. Younger daughter turned to her father and said in a stage whisper: "How old are you?" When they told me about it upon arriving home, I congratulated her. With a huge smile, she said: "Initiative, initiative, initiative!"

Gee, kid, keep this up and this may actually be a very good school year! Oh yeah, and many happy returns, birthday boy. (Not that you'll ever read this.)

As the granddaughter of an entomologist, I'm ashamed of myself

So, I'd just waved bye-bye to our house guest who has departed after a pleasant three-day stay. I sauntered into the kitchen to fix myself lunch, and while bent over the counter, felt a light brushing at the nape of my neck. Without thinking, I reached back and...yow! My pinkie was really pink! Something had stung me. Well, folks, I totally lost it. In a blind panic, I turned on the tap full blast and started splashing water over my head, too terrified to reach back again with my fingers. I snatched up a tea-towel and frantically batted the back of my head. It then occurred to me that whatever it was...

This?

This??

...may have fallen down the back of my top, so I feverishly undid oh, I dunno, twelve buttons and ripped it off, shaking it vigorously. (Much later, it dawned on me that our kitchen has no curtains.) Clutching my top and the tea-towel to me and using very unscientific language, I barreled upstairs, and leaving a trail of clothes scattered in the hall, immersed myself in a warm shower, having finally summoned the courage to yank out my scrunchy. While shampooing, periodically examining my pink pinkie, I noticed that the water was getting colder and colder. I managed a rinse, and giving my clothes some final cautionary shakes, re-robed and descended the stairs, shivering from shock and cold. I discovered I'd left the kitchen tap on at full blast which explained my very refreshing shower.

Somehow, I think my grandfather (a noted researcher of the tsetse fly, if you must know) would have thought my behaviour extremely silly. I felt even sillier while watching the Rick Mercer Report last night.

If you click on the link this week (October 7th to October 14th), it will take you right to the video in question. Otherwise, the video will be on the list to your right and it's entitled (shudder) "Beard of Bees".

Okay, nobody can accuse me of courage when it comes to bugs. And there's a dead mouse lying by our front path. I'll bet this is going to be a great month for vermin... (And yes, I know house centipedes are great for controlling much nastier household insects. They're still creepy. Leave me alone.)